


Insomnium

by sparklingice



Category: Supernatural
Genre: African Dream Root, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Brain Damage, Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Comatose Sam Winchester, Demon Blood, Dreamwalking, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Sam Winchester, Lucid Dreaming, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Episode: s02e21 All Hell Breaks Loose, Protective Dean Winchester, Psychic Abilities, Serious Injuries, Song: Heat of the Moment (Asia)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-08-25 14:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16662773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparklingice/pseuds/sparklingice
Summary: "PVS. Persistent vegetative state. Practically brain dead. Gone, murdered, deceased. A goddamn vegetable on a bunch of machines. A lost cause. That's what those docs have been telling Dean for weeks now. But he knows better. The line on the last paper wasn’t straight, a part of Sam’s brain is still alive. And you can bet your ass he will fight tooth and nail to keep that line from flattening out."In which Sam doesn't die when Jake stabs him in the back - but he doesn't quite survive it either.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so glad I finally had the chance to start this story! :)  
> It will be a mix of supernatural and science. Don't take the medical part too seriously, though - while I did have some classes related to neuroscience, I'm not a doctor. This is all fiction. 
> 
> Before we start, here's brainline.org's definition of PVS: "A persistent vegetative state (commonly, but incorrectly, referred to as "brain death") sometimes follows a coma. Individuals in such a state have lost their thinking abilities and awareness of their surroundings, but retain non-cognitive function and normal sleep patterns."
> 
> The title is inspired by medieval dream literature and means 'nightmare', 'dream' or 'vision', depending on the context.

 

Nothing indicated that the turning point Dean had been begging for would come today. His morning started as usual; he woke up with a pounding heart, eyes roaming to seek out the familiar figure in the other bed, never finding their target. In a moment of blurry panic, he reached for his gun - then the memories came back. Cold Oak, the wound, closing that Hellgate, killing _the demon_ \- and the endless hours he had spent in the hospital afterwards, even though it was already too late, even though he should have been there all along.

They told him that the first time Sam opened his eyes, he was lucid and in a vast amount of pain the doctors couldn’t get to subside before he lost consciousness again. He wasn’t supposed to come to it then. They don’t even know _how_ he did it, only that his brain shut down then and there. He should have stayed in a medically induced coma for another day, but the psychic little shit fought his way through. That was the last chance - Dean’s last chance to talk to him. And he wasn’t there. He missed it. He was too busy ganking that yellow-eyed motherfucker miles away from his brother when it happened. And it just figures, right, that Sam wouldn’t really wake up again. He always liked to be all contrary and stubborn, didn’t he? Always such a pain in the ass. _Alright,_ Dean keeps thinking, _it is on. It is so on. See if I’ll give up, Sasquatch._

It’s PVS, persistent vegetative state. Which means he’s practically brain dead. Gone, murdered, deceased. A goddamn vegetable on a bunch of machines. No matter that his spine is all patched up, he’s a lost cause. That's what those know-it-all docs have been telling Dean for weeks now. But he knows better. Sam is still alive, and he is going to fight anyone who dares claim otherwise. He has _proof_ now, real, tangible proof. The EEG reports he stole from Dr. Robert’s cabinet. The line on the last paper wasn’t even close to straight, no, it was a ragged, high-frequency wave, a testament that shows a part of Sam’s brain is still alive. And you can bet your ass Dean will fight tooth and nail to keep that line from flattening out.

A few minutes ago, the doctor was trying to convince him to start making Decisions. That’s right, with a capital letter, because Sam’s diagnosis opens the possibility of ending life support. _Don’t prolong your suffering,_ she said, _he’s only tethered to this world by his body. Let him go._ Like hell. Sam is on the brink of coming back, Dean is sure. This - this in-between state, this condition or whatever, can’t be permanent. No fucking way. Every single time Sam’s eyes flutter open, he can swear he sees more light and sharpness in them than the day before. He just needs some time to heal, is that too hard for this high and mighty woman to understand?

“I’m so sorry Mr. Winchester.” She rushes back into her office from a quick consultation with a nurse, not at all apologetic in spite of her words. “That was an emergency. As I was saying -”

“You know, Dr. Roberts, I don’t have a medical certification, nor do I write useless letters before my name. But I do know one thing.” He cuts in brusquely, then slaps the sheets on the table between them. She jumps. “This isn’t the brain activity of a dead person.”

Her eyes flicker down, then back up to Dean’s face, stalling. “Mr. Winchester -”

 _“Don’t.”_ He snaps. “That line isn’t flat.”

“That’s only cortical theta rhythm -”

“The hell is that?”

She lets her eyes slip closed for a second as though she had to hold herself back from flipping out at Dean’s lack of medical knowledge. Screw her. “It’s the type of brain activity we can detect during sleep or deep meditation. But -”

Dean raises both eyebrows. “You mean, he’s actually sleeping? Has he been sleeping all this time, even with his eyes open?”

“No. Please, let me explain -”

Her voice doesn’t reach Dean’s racing mind. No one bothered to tell him the specific details of Sam’s condition, he had no way to understand why Sam would look at him without ever seeing, but now - geez, if only he knew it was as simple as that. Sleeping. Bobby must have a spell or something that could work better than the drugs they are pumping into Sam’s veins here. This might be the clue he has been waiting for, the point when he can change everything for the better at last.

“Theta means sleeping, you said it yourself, doc. He’s just sleeping, right? How do we wake him up? Should I - Should I read to him and shit?”

Dr. Roberts purses her lips, not quite managing to suppress a sigh. Dean would very much like to bristle, but his elation at the possibilities this revelation brings far outweigh the irritation her manners cause.

“You may do that, but his condition is very unlikely to improve. Theta rhythm is normal in vegetative patients, because their sleep-wake cycles are _intact_. He is still in control of his respiratory functions, he can produce EEG activity and he might even dream. However, the chances of him recovering awareness are abysmal.”

Dean frowns. Now, that’s even more concrete. “Dream? Is he locked in a dream?”

“No. Mr. Win- _Dean._ Focus on me.” She tries to grab his full attention. “Your brother has no self-awareness. These are just functions, empty mechanisms, okay? His soul isn’t here anymore.”

Dean doesn’t believe a word she says. She doesn’t know about the supernatural either - how would she know if this issue was truly irreversible? No way, that’s how. Solving this problem is officially in Dean’s hands now, he declares soundlessly. He’s done believing in ordinary human miracles.

“He’s gone.” Dr. Roberts goes on, oblivious. She puts a hand on Dean’s, the Monday morning sound of compassion so dull and empty in her voice. “I’m sorry.”

 

* * *

 

 

Three days later, Dean is only closer to breaking through Sam’s invisible wall in theory. Fortunately, he’s desperate enough to be hopeful about theories alone. Okay, he might have surpassed desperate and ventured right into the state of derangement, but it could be chalked up to the fact that he has been living on vending machine candy and coffee since Cold Oak and he’s not planning to stop anytime soon. Unless Sam reacts so well today that it renders the rest of his plan unnecessary.

Currently, he’s trying his absolute best not to laugh himself sick at the sight of Bobby’s military disguise. It’s a battle he seems to be losing.

“Colonel.” He snickers and mock salutes, empty M&Ms bag scrunching in his hand.

Bobby casts a withering glare in his direction. “Shut up, idjit.” He sneers. “I had nothing else on hand.”

“You could have come as, you know, yourself.”

“And what would we do then if someone walked in at the wrong time? We would be busted.”

Tentatively, Dean slips one of the last two m&ms into his mouth. His fingers feel all sticky from holding it too long, but he doesn’t dare lick them clean while Bobby’s grumbling.

“But people respect the uniform. It could save our asses, boy.” Bobby goes on, then grunts. The pink tip of Dean’s tongue darts out and he pushes his last piece of candy between his lips, eyes never leaving Bobby to avoid being reprimanded for not paying attention. “Well? Are we going to stand here all day?”

The familiar gruffness of Bobby’s voice pulls a cheeky smirk from Dean’s lips. He turns on his heel and starts off in the direction of the elevators. “Sorry, sir. I will lead the way, sir.”

Bobby cuffs the back of his head. “Cut it out.”

One of the nurses who is regularly assigned to this part of the building passes them on their way to Sam, pushing a cart of liquid mash that Dean recognises as lunch that Sam must have been oh-so-delighted to gag down. If he’s truly inside his body, he must be writhing in disgust, Dean is pretty sure about that. The nurses haven’t been tube feeding him for a week now because that carved out, hollow shell of him in the hospital bed can still swallow reflexively if they give him very small portions, but - obviously - he can’t chew. Therefore, appalling pulp is the way to go. It kind of works out in the favour of Dean’s plan. He knows next to nothing about feeding tubes, but he can use a mixer. When they sneak Sam out of this place, he’ll be able to spoon feed him at Bobby’s just fine.

Dean winks and leers at the nurse out of habit, but he doesn’t get an appreciative look anymore, only a grimace filled with pity and a bittersweet hint of fondness he never wanted to see on a pretty girl’s face as a reaction to his flirting.

“You look like shit.” Bobby remarks right on cue, just to add insult to injury.

Dean snorts, jamming his hands into his pockets. His fingers close around his keys to feel the soothing coldness of them that reminds him of home. “Just wait until you see Sam.”

Bobby hasn’t been around since the days right after the hellgate mishap. It’s understandable - the world doesn’t stop just because the Winchesters are out of commission. Hell’s monsters are still out there, Bobby needed to go back to work. It’s cool. Dean had been managing things here perfectly well on his own. It’s not like there’s much to do. And they kick everyone out after visiting hours are over, so. Would be kind of awkward to spend days with the old grouch in a shared motel room, huh? Geez, imagine waking up to _that mug_ instead of Sam’s prissy face. No, it was better this way. Yep, definitely better.

Anyway, today Dean is going to try entering the dream Sam is stuck in. Bobby’s got some herbs and made a killer cocktail that should hook Dean right up into Sammy’s beautiful mind. _It’s gonna be a blast,_ he tells himself, despite the hint of trepidation he feels about it. What if all he’s going to find is rumble and dust? The tatters of Sam’s consciousness strewn across an unhinged dream? That would be one hell of a nightmare to sleep through.

They round the corner to the quiet corridor where patients like Sam are holed up, in their own separate little wing in this hospital. It’s almost like a place for corporeal ghosts and bound spirits, eerie-still and empty except for the breeze of death that seems to haunt every nook and cranny around here. Dean tenses up every time he steps inside, chasing shadows of imaginary reapers with his gaze, away from the door at the end of the hall, away from his brother.

The mood turns somber once they enter Sam’s room and see him lying there, lifeless and pale. He must have fallen asleep again after his lunch - his breathing is so slow the movements of his chest barely raise his blanket. Despite his carefully measured nutrition, he is losing weight at an alarming speed. The sight of his sunken, pallid cheeks and fragile frame stabs Dean in the gut with spikes of poisonous sorrow. _If only I could give him the flesh on my bones,_ Dean’s mind keeps whispering, _I have more than enough to share._

Heaving a sigh, he gestures for Bobby, who seems frozen from shock, to step over the threshold. “Go on. Say hello.”

Bobby sends an unreadable look his way. “Hey, Sam.” He croaks out after another beat of silence. He sounds wrecked. “Good to see you, boy.”

With a strained smile plastered on his face, Dean saunters over to Sam’s supine form and strokes a hand along his right arm. “Hey, sleepyhead. Rise and shine.”

No answer comes, of course, but this greeting and the subsequent small talk - well, monologue, really - are parts of Dean’s daily routine now and he’ll be damned if he reined himself in just because Bobby is watching. “If you had wanted some time off, you could have just said so. We could have gone to a beach somewhere, hell, maybe even California, and I could be sick of salt then, instead of chlorine.”

Keeping up the steady flow of chatter, he moves over to the foot of the bed and lifts the blanket, uncovering Sam’s giant legs, then takes a toothpick out of his pocket and runs it up the sole of Sam’s left foot. Technically, he wasn’t told to do any kind of testing on his brother, but he saw Dr. Roberts doing this one day and he just… he needs some visible reassurance that Sam might be able to recover from this, that he might be able to stand up again, to look down at Dean and roll his clever eyes at yet another bad joke. Much to his relief, the toes _move,_ curling the same way the doc labelled as normal for someone with the extent of spinal injury Sam suffered. Dean is hit by the absurd urge to thank his brother’s reflexes for not being completely unresponsive like the rest of Sam’s body is. They have no means to know how well the operations on Sam’s spine went, because in this mental state he won’t make any conscious movement, but at least they know he has some sensation left down there. At least _he isn’t dead._

Bobby steps further into the room, gaze filled with uncharacteristic solemnity. “Dean, you didn’t tell me…” He trails off, unable to say it out loud that - that they cut Sam’s hair.

Not that Dean is any better at it. Even in his mind, he prefers to ignore it altogether, pretends there’s nothing different, nothing _wrong,_ because however insignificant the change seems to be, his hair has always been a big part of Sam’s independence. Losing his control over that is the ultimate sign that he is slipping away.

Dean swallows and arranges the blanket back to its original state, smoothing his hand up along Sam’s side to his chest to get rid of the creases in the fabric. Sam likes neat things.

“Yeah, well. It’s easier to examine his brain this way.” Bending down, he cards his fingers through Sam’s short strands, his thumb rubbing over his forehead once, just a quick, imperceptible swipe that has a chance to go unnoticed by Bobby.

“And I won’t have to deal with the sight of his bed hair every freaking day. It’s a good thing that your impractical bird’s nest is gone now, right, buddy?” He smiles at Sam’s sleeping face, then casts his eyes around, desperate for a new subject.

“Look at that! Bobby bought you flowers.” He exclaims when he remembers the bouquet in Bobby’s hand, snatching it away to take it to the vases on the windowsill.

“Pink ones. Girly pink.” He teases as he drags the carnations to a sunny spot. It’s the only well-wishing item there - Dean doesn’t bring gifts that could be trashed within a day’s time and he sure as hell doesn’t bring personal items. It is only a matter of time until the hospital figures out he can’t pay the bills anymore. They should be able to move out any minute if push comes to shove. The more stuff they have here, the more they are hindered in case of a necessary escape.

Speaking of which. “So. Still sticking to the plan?”

Bobby grunts. “Yeah. We have to move him out this week.”

“Did you pay the EMT?” It’s not going to be a joyride. For one, Sam needs an ambulance, ordinary cars won’t do, for another, Bobby’s place is four hours away. Four hours during which Dean will have to trust a corrupt paramedic to look after his barely living brother.

“Do you think I’m an amateur, boy? Of course I paid the damn EMT.”

“Good.” Dean nods and goes back to Sam’s head to whisper into his ear. “What do you think, Sammy, you ready to get outta here? Hope you are.” _God knows I am,_ he thinks bitterly. “Why don’t you open those puppy eyes and say hi to Bobby, hm? I know you wanna.”

Sam’s nose twitches. Sometimes he does things like that - Dean would be blabbering on about one thing or another and all of a sudden, a part of Sam’s body would jerk. According to the doctor, they are just spontaneous non-purposeful movements, but Dean can’t help hoping they are signs of Sam struggling to get it across that he hears Dean. “Yeah, he looks ridiculous. You should check it out, Sam, have a good laugh.”

Dean winks at Bobby, then starts fussing with the pillow under Sam’s head, mouth spouting new strings of words. “I’m starting to think this is your grand scheme to give me some time to woo your pretty, pretty nurse. Nice of you, bud, real nice of you. But I figure I’ve missed my chance to tap that a while ago, so… how about ending this little vacation to dreamland you’ve gone on, hm?”

“Do you do this every day?” Bobby asks with an odd lilt in his voice. As though he was talking to a stray dog that could snap anytime.

“Huh?” Dean replies, distracted by the tiny radio on the bedside table. He is trying to tune it in to Sam’s favourite radio station - at least, he assumes it must be his favourite, since the one and only time the corners of his lips twitched into a smile, Dean was listening to that.

“Never mind.”

There it is! Dean grins in triumph as the notorious sounds of _Heat of the Moment_ blare through the device. He watches Sam’s face with avid attention, but his lashes don’t flutter.

“C’mon, Sammy, I thought you liked this song. It’s Asia!” Nothing. The unnatural stillness envelops them like an otherwordly veil, pierced only by the intense gaze prickling at the back of Dean's head.

“What?” He mutters defensively.

Bobby shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Oh, shut up, old man.” Dean mutters and switches off that stupid radio. He just really wanted Bobby to see Sam awake before they started rooting around in his mind.

“I think we should get on with the plan.” Bobby tells him and places a small thermos of African dream root tea in his hand.

“Yeah, you’re right.” Dean sighs and runs a hand through Sam’s hair again, pulling a strand free. “Do you think it will work?”

“Wish I knew, kid.”

 

* * *

 

 

Dean wakes up with a pounding heart, eyes roaming to seek out the familiar figure in the other bed, and he finds Sam lying there, curled up like a baby. In a moment of confusion, he reaches for his gun - then the memories come back. Cold Oak, the wound, the hospital, their plan with Bobby, until he heaves a huge, grounding breath and realises he is dreaming. Or rather, he has entered Sam’s dream. His thoughts swirl around in languid nonchalance, dampened by either the drink he tossed back in the real world or the haze of sleep. He shakes his head and the room pulsates, filling with fog. God, this is going to be way harder than he thought so.

It’s their usual motel set up, that much is obvious. Strangely, he expected Sam to dream them into a classy suburban house with white picket fence or in the middle of a fantasy land filled with orcs, magicians and fairies, something a nerd like his brother would like. A roadside motel seems so… ordinary. Boring. On the other hand, it is loads better than the worst case scenario of post-nuclear apocalypse world Dean was trying to gear himself up for.

Mindful of the wobbling ground under him, Dean slides off the bed and shuffles in the direction of Sam’s. The bizarre fog makes him cough and double over, but he concentrates on the fact that it’s not real, that this isn’t the real world, and soon enough he is breathing through the itch of his windpipe with little to no difficulty. If Bobby’s right, he should be able to control parts of the dream in time, currently, however, it’s almost impossible to have power over anything but his own reactions. He struggles, feels as though his legs are stuck in mud, then glances down and sees that _they truly are._

“Damnit, Sammy, let me get closer!” He swears and huffs through a squelching step. “I’m here to help.”

Sam appears to be just as deep in sleep as he is in the real world. No wonder he never responds to anything - he’s unconscious even in his own dream. Perhaps the real challenge is to wake him up _here,_ not in the reality waiting for them outside.

“Is that the best you got? A little mud won’t deter me, kiddo.” Dean pants, reaching for Sam’s peaceful face, almost there, almost -

“Oh no, you don’t.” Someone says behind him, amused, and snaps his fingers.

 

* * *

 

 

Dean wakes up gasping, slumped over in the chair pushed up to Sam’s hospital bed. “There was a guy in there.” He wheezes and grips Bobby’s upper arm in a death grip.

“What?”

“A guy. He - He just zapped me -”

He can feel cold sweat sliding down his back and the trembles of inexplicable fear curling in his chest. It’s similar to waking up from a nightmare you can’t remember and trying to shake the last shards of ice out of your veins. Briefly, Dean wonders if he can recall everything or if there’s something missing, something crucial, but however hard he thinks, he can't identify the mysterious guy. Then he glances at Sam, his knee-jerk response to a riddle beyond his comprehension, and has to do a double-take. Sam is looking back.

 _“Hey.”_ He says in a burst of happiness before he realises that the usual lightless, blank look is still there. His joy dims by a fraction, but Sam’s current “awake” mode is still better than nothing.

“Hello there.” He continues a little more gently. “How are you feeling today?”

Sam’s hazel eyes slide past, roll back and forward without seeing. “Did you hear me inside? I bet you did.” Dean feels a tinge of embarrassment for the way he’s talking, especially in front of Bobby, but a second later he brushes it off. He doesn’t care. All that matters is Sam, the off chance that he is hearing some of this, that he feels how much Dean needs him back. “Took pity on your big brother, didn’t you?”

The rustle of Bobby’s uncomfortable shifting forces him to compose himself somewhat. He clears his throat and holds up a finger in front of Sam’s bleary eyes. “Do you think we could try this again? Can you follow my fin -”

In the hallway, someone upends a cart that connects with the ground in a loud metallic crash. To Dean’s astonishment, Sam blinks and startles at the sound.

“Woah. You - You reacted!” He exclaims. “Sam, did you hear that? Are you here?” With careful hands, he cups Sam’s cheeks and turns his head an inch to the side. Makes it easier to lock eyes, just in case Sam regains the ability to do so. “Sammy?”

“Dean.” Bobby puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, rubbing in soothing circles until the bubble of Dean’s composure deflates and reality rushes back in like an ugly flood.

“Okay.” Dean closes his eyes and moves away from the touch. “It’s okay. Come here.”

He folds himself over Sam’s form and hugs him as tight as he can, breathing in the spicy-familiar scent of his skin mingled with the hospital’s sterile stench. His forehead slides against the crown of Sam’s head, then stills. Childhood nights spent on the Impala’s backseat flash and fade like fen fire behind his eyelids.

“I lied. I totally miss your stupid hair.” He whispers into Sam’s ear and tries not to smear wetness on the too-pale skin pressed to his lashes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay, I had an important university deadline this weekend and I needed to work a lot this past fortnight to gather the requirements.

 

Dean jolts up with a pounding heart, eyes roaming to seek out the familiar figure in the other bed, and he finds Sam lying there, curled up like a baby. In a moment of confusion, he thinks about his gun - then the memories come back.

“You son of a bitch.” He hisses, and a thick fog spills into the room.

“I’ve been waiting for you.” A cold voice answers from the gloomy corner on the right. There’s something about it that turns Dean’s blood into liquid ice, something dark and coiling that crushes every wisp of humanity out of the words. He would never admit it to anyone, but the mere presence of this unknown being makes his heart clench in fear. “It gets boring sometimes with Sammy boy playing Sleeping Beauty over there.”

In the face of danger, bravado always seems to be the best of his options to get out. “Come out and show your face, you coward.”

The stranger chuckles. Dean doesn’t hear footsteps, doesn’t hear a snick of a sound, nothing. But when the voice speaks up again, it whispers right into his ear. “Name calling? I expected better from you. Where’s that famous hunter mastermind?”

Dean feels around for the gun under his pillow. He knows it’s there - it _should be_ there. Sam wouldn’t dream him in this setting without a gun, wouldn’t leave him defenseless and vulnerable to be the prey for a monster. But the weapon is nowhere to find - Dean comes up empty-handed.

“What do you want?” He grits out through his teeth, mind spinning.

There’s a radio on the bedside table. He can’t see it now, but he knows it’s there, remembers it was there during his first dream-trip. If he’s fast enough, maybe he can grab it and knock the intruder out. He has no idea what happens if he gets hurt or killed in Sam’s dream, but the possibilities make his fingers tremble. He has to make it out in one piece, because his brother needs him. Nobody else has the ability to bring him back.

“Control.” The voice slithers down Dean’s spine like chilly molasses. An invisible presence curls around his right shoulder, a heavy hand. “I want control. I was born to take it.”

Dean wants to say all this creature was born for is being a chunk of meat hanging off the edge of Dean’s knife. But he doesn’t know his enemy yet. He has to be careful. “Sam will never give it to you.”

The guy laughs. “You know, when the pain hit him, his scream broke the windows up here. He collapsed - I grabbed my chance and pushed forward. We are at an impasse now. Because, you see, he wants to wake up. He’s _struggling.”_ Dean closes his eyes and imagines sinking a dagger into this bastard’s chest, carving out his heart - if he even has one. “I’m waiting for him to stop, to give up. I just have to bide my time. I can’t get hold of the reins until then. But - and here’s the problem between you and I, Dean - he can sense you. It gives him hope. And I can’t let that happen.”

The ghostly touch of that hand lifts and Dean is able to breathe again. He turns towards the presence and sneers. “Well, tough luck, dude, because I -”

 

“Fuck!” Dean exclaims as he blinks awake in the real world, laid out on a camp bed in Bobby’s converted guest room.

He failed again. That thing inside Sam’s head, the one that survived the transport from the hospital to Sioux Falls, is too fucking strong to get through. It likes to play sometimes. Lets Dean get close enough that he can see the mole beside Sam’s nose, then laughs at him and thrusts him out of the dream. Nothing catches him off guard and nothing seems to hurt him. The day they got Sam settled in his freshly sterilized room, Dean went through every single exorcism he could think of. He chanted in Latin, wiped Sam’s face with holy water, pressed a silver spoon against his skin, put a tiny pinch of salt on his tongue. Nothing.

“I bet you would have solved it already, Sam.” Dean mutters and sighs. The vital signs monitor they bought on eBay, of all things, beeps away in its usual annoying rhythm. Sam is still and corpse-white in his stolen hospital bed, a dab of drool trickling from the corner of his mouth. Dean stands up to walk over and wipe it away, but his legs bend like jelly and he topples over, a lead-weight of fatigue spreading through his joints as his hands make contact with the ground.

“Dean!” Bobby rushes to his side from the doorway, hooking his hands under Dean’s armpits to help him up. “Damnit, boy, be careful.”

“What’s wrong with my legs?” Dean whimpers plaintively, rubbing some feeling back into his spasming thigh muscles. They quiver and tense under his hands, ready to cramp. Shit… He needs to get some vitamin tablets or something. Or a good coffee. Black.

Bobby frowns. “It might be a side effect of the dream root. When was your last trip?” Busted. “Dean?”

Shrugging, Dean feigns nonchalance. He glances back at Sam and pulls a tissue out of his pocket. “Last night.”

“Are you an idiot? You’re running yourself ragged!”

“So what?”

“So what - You can’t take on what’s inside Sam’s head without getting normal sleep!”

“Yes, I can, and I will. We’re running out of time, Bobby.” He says and reaches out to finally clear the saliva off Sam’s cheek. A sponge bath is in order, but he’s not prepared to do it yet. The last time he had to wash his brother, Sam was eight and running a fever of 103. Dean hasn't braced himself yet for repeating it on a grown-up body.

“Exactly.” Bobby comes closer, trying to catch his attention. “That’s why you should work on getting stronger instead of killing yourself for no goddamn reason.”

Dean stops dead in his tracks, ripples of fury and bitter desperation clouding his mind.

“I have every reason in the world.” He snaps and shoots a violent glare Bobby’s way. Sam’s skin twitches under his fingers - he’s blinking in his sleep.

Bobby takes a step back, face closing off. There’s a hint of pity in his eyes, a depth of sadness Dean wants to set on fire. “I know I can’t change your fool of a mind. But you need to take care of yourself, son. For your brother’s sake.”

“Duly noted.” Dean hisses, turning his back on the conversation. He needs to check if all of Sam’s sensors are in place.

Stroking a fingertip over the line where Sam’s dimple would be, he gets lost in thought. God, when was the last time he saw Sam smile? Heard his laughter? Who the hell cares about sleeping when his brother’s life is on the line? He’s done with this “moving on” and “settling in for the long-haul” crap that Bobby has been trying to bring up for days. No, this is a crisis, and he handles it as such. It isn’t permanent and isn’t goddamn fatal. Bobby can go preach about health when Sam is able to move his head by himself again.

 

* * *

 

The best part of Dean’s new daily routine is lunchtime. He likes feeding Sam. It gives him a sense of calm and hope that he is able to nourish him, to take care of him and his needs. Breakfasts and dinners, however, are a completely different matter.

Mornings are the worst. Every single time Dean opens his eyes to the brightness of dawn, coming out of his own dreams, his mouth fills with bile thinking he lost Sam over the night. He jumps off his cot and rushes over to the hospital bed five feet away, holding his breath until he sees Sam take one himself. When the torrent of relief settles down in his chest, he spends ten minutes synchronizing their inhales, trying to determine if that much air is enough for Sam’s brittle, wounded body, if he can go leave his side for a minute without breaking down from worry.

In the evenings, he steels himself for yet another lovely chat with the parasite he and Bobby haven’t yet managed to figure out. Bobby unearthed all the dusty tomes he collected over the years, but the closest they ever got to a conclusion was an aborted conversation about projections and reapers.

“God, I hope it’s not a reaper.” Dean mumbles and pushes a teaspoon of orange pap between Sam’s lips. As usual, he waits for Sam’s throat to bob, but there’s no sign of swallowing - then Sam’s breathing stutters into a paralyzed cough.

“Shit!” Dean yelps, jumping up from his seat and sticking his fingers into Sam’s mouth to get his tongue and the food out of the way. With his free hand, he tries to bend Sam’s head forward and smack his neck a little, but he has limited options to stop the choking. He can’t thump Sam on the back, can’t even turn him without help, and a Heimlich maneuver is completely out of the question since Sam’s spine isn’t healed yet and as far as Dean knows, it could snap in half from any overzealous movement.

“Come on. Don’t bail out on me, dude.” He rasps into Sam’s ear while the disgusting mixture of mush, saliva and something that might be vomit runs down his hand. He curses and yells for Bobby, then curses all the harder when he realises Bobby has gone out for groceries.

It takes a few minutes to stabilize Sam again, and by that time the sheets are ruined and the machines are raising a ruckus with their incessant alarms beeping all over the place. Dean is cradling Sam’s head in his arms and tries not to dry heave and sob as his panic crests. It can happen any minute, Sam might give up on living, and where would Dean be then?

“Don’t you dare give in to that fucker.” He gulps back the urge to hyperventilate and bundles up the messy sheets, wiping the smears from Sam’s face with a clean corner.

His hand is gross, he can’t even look at it, but he’s too scared to leave Sam alone for longer than a quick rinse in the adjoining bathroom. This is only their third day at Bobby’s, but things are already taking a steep slope downward. Dean is out of his depth, the rational segment of his mind knows, but he can’t take Sam back to a hospital. He would just shrivel away there, captive of the monster residing in his own dreams.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to get you back. I know you are inside.” Dean forces some cheer into his tone as he arranges a new set of blankets around Sam’s torso, the previous one a crumpled mess kicked into the corner.

In the few minutes of free time he gets nowadays, he has been reading up on PVS too. It took quite a while to cut through the annoyingly difficult medical lingo and find some sources that made sense, but he bookmarked some blogs that weren’t infected by sugarcoating media catchphrases. They all suggested that nice, soothing tones improved the condition. So, Dean does his level best to sound like a “warm summer breeze” and “grandma’s sweet tea”, whatever that means.

“I promise I’ll kill that motherfucker you brought home from the hospital with a bigass grin on my face.” He smirks at Sam and pats his shoulder, gentle as can be. Sam snorts. It’s probably an automatic response to something irritating his nose, but Dean’s smile turns a little more genuine in an instant. _It’s almost like an actual conversation when Sammy’s pissed,_ he thinks, and nostalgy hits him like an avalanche. It makes him lethargic and sleepy.

“Hm? What if that doesn’t work out? Well.” He flicks a bit of fuzz off Sam’s chest, thoughts wandering off and skittering away from Plan B. Demon deals don’t tend to go over well. But if you’ve reached that point in your desperation, the fact that _they go over_ is enough. Dean can’t bear to muse about it for long, because he knows... He knows he is going to do it if the light at the end of the tunnel dims out. “It’s going to work out.”

 

Half an hour later, Bobby’s still absent and it’s getting really fucking hard to keep his eyes open. Mind fuzzy and cotton-packed from exhaustion, Dean reaches for the carrot puree again, just to do something with his hand. Perhaps, if he is more careful about proportions, he’ll be able to get a few spoonfuls more into his brother. Sammy needs nutrition like a lifeline, he’s withering away to skin and bones.

“I still remember…” Dean starts, stirring the homogenous mass. “After Mom’s death, I had to… when Dad got into hunting, I had to grow up really fast, you know? Stopped playing with my cars, started playing peekaboo and spoon equals airplane.” He chuckles. “For a longass time, you wouldn’t eat until _I_ started eating too. The amount of crappy baby food I swallowed for you, little brother… Is that what you are playing at? You wanna see me gag?” He makes a face at that lousy excuse for food, then at Sam’s empty eyes. It’s worth a try, right? “Okay, buddy, if that’s what it takes.”

The sudden burst of bland, pure vegetable taste makes Dean cringe so hard his jaw hurts. “Ew. No wonder you wanted to spit it out.” This is… Jesus Christ, this is so bad it’s inedible. Inedible for anyone with functioning taste buds and a working brain. Which, of course, must mean that Sam might be on the mend, because he sure as hell didn’t wanna eat the stuff when Dean put it on his tongue.

“Alright. I say we move on for now.” He declares and puts the rest of Sam’s breakfast away as fast as his arms move. If only he could feed Sam chicken wings and fries... “Let’s get rid of your ugly goatee, how about that? You’ll be nice and smooth, just you wait.”

Yep, surprisingly, hair growth doesn’t stop when your brain decides to go on a sabbatical. That includes _all kinds of_ hair. And Sam isn’t exactly… well, his beard is no more than a sparse collection of strands in a particularly unappealing arrangement. Dean would joke about it being a forever-virgin badge, but with no one to swat at him indignantly it isn’t that much fun. Anyway, Sam wouldn’t want to wake up with _that,_ so Dean is going to shave him.

“I know you never liked growing stubble.” He tells Sam on his way back from his brief supply run to the bathroom. “Always used to whine about the itch. I thought that maybe if I let it grow out, you’ll be so outraged that you will wake up and hunt me down.”

He laughs at his own half-joke, then gets to work, humming to himself. Perhaps Sam will fight harder against that bitch inside his head if he knows that otherwise he has to listen to Dean’s crooning for an eternity and beyond. Rubbing shaving foam on Sam’s cheeks, Dean taps the side of his skull. Who the hell has crawled up in there? He is beginning to suspect it’s someone or something that they already know. He’s awfully adamant about hiding his face. His identity could be the first step in exterminating that fucker.

“I don’t know what to do, Sam.” Dean admits quietly, eyes fixed on the silver gleam of the razor as it slides over soft flesh. “Go after him or try to get through to you first?”

Sam’s face, vacant and inert, shows no reaction. His eyes are open - he’s still in “awake mode”, but Dean misses the sparkle of recognition in them so bad that he can’t look and watch them roll around, unseeing. He misses the glances they used to shoot each other behind witnesses’ backs, the amusement Sam always tried to conceal whenever Dean coaxed a phone number out of a pretty waitress - he even misses the anger Sam is prone to when Dean messes up and clings to him. Sam always wanted to be free and independent, and now he’s locked in his own body, left to the mercy of the brother he once fled so far away from.

The realisation stings in the wounds Dean hasn’t yet healed on his soul. For a split second, an insane idea pops into his head. He wants to press down a little harder and let the blade bite into the pale curve of Sam’s jaw, just a tiny bit. Blood he is familiar with, this useless no-life, he isn’t. He knows what it looks like when a crimson dribble paints Sam’s skin copper. He could take care of that, pull out a bandage, heal the nick. But there’s nothing he knows about bringing someone back from the edge. All he has is the John Winchester way and that… he knows he shouldn’t do that.

The painful thought of his Dad jerks him out of his reverie, and he realises he has been staring at Sam’s chin for minutes. “Okay, I really am beat.” He sighs and begins cleaning the residual foam from Sam’s face. “I’ll just put these away and take a nap with you.”

Too tired to care, Dean tosses the shaving kit on his camp bed and gingerly pushes Sam’s body closer to the edge of the mattress so that he can climb in next to him. He settles down in the narrow strip of place and closes his eyes. From this close, he can hear Sam breathe and feel the warmth of his torso seep into his chest. Knows in every second that ticks by that Sam is alive and fighting. This is the only way he can get some shut-eye right now.

“Bobby told me I should value that I have the time to say goodbye.” Dean whispers into Sam’s ear. He’s too close, he’s aware of that - but the discomfort is overpowered by the vast amount of tranquillity the position makes him feel. He takes hold of Sam’s hand and lets the comfort wash over him. Bobby’s out doing whoever knows what - there’s no one to call him out on being too emotional. This won’t be longer than an hour anyway. Just a bit of rest before tonight’s dreamwalk.

“Imagine how well I took that.” He lets out a weak laugh. “It’s bullshit, Sammy. Time sucks. It really, really sucks. Because you got me into this… this limbo state. And I can’t step out of it. It makes me wanna do crazy things. Real crazy things. I’m barely holding it together, man. I need a sign. Give me a sign.”

As he dozes off, Sam’s enormous hand seems to squeeze around his fingers.

 

* * *

 

He sleeps for four hours and fifteen minutes and wakes up to a plump, middle-aged woman folding up the blanket around Sam’s legs.

“Get away from him.” Dean growls, voice gritty-rough and eyes crusted, but pocket knife already drawn.

“Oh, honey, don’t be so jumpy, I don’t bite.” She smiles, way less fazed than Dean would have liked her to be. “I’m Karen.”

 _“What?”_ Dean stares.

“Bobby and I met in Sioux Falls General six months ago. He had such a nasty wound on his thigh - who knew that coyotes could bite like that!” She laughs with all the naivety of a person who has never seen anything that goes bump in the night. “He told me about your brother. I’m sorry about that car crash.”

Dean barely refrains from rolling his eyes. Why did Bobby bring someone here who isn’t in the know? Why would he bring _anyone_ here? “Me too.” He mutters with an awkward nod and lowers the knife.

“What are you doing?” He jerks his chin at Sam’s legs, suspicions on the rise again. Is she massaging them? Or assessing where to cut them off once Dean is out of the picture? Is she a shapeshifter?

“I’m a nurse.” She beams at him, inadvertently replying to his question, and kneads Sam’s calf. “Your dad asked me to help you take care of Sam. I thought I would start with some massage therapy."

There are several things that baffles Dean to no end, but one of those trumps all others by making him see red. “My dad?”

“Ye-”

“Dean, hey, I see you’re up.” Bobby cuts in as he walks inside, darting nervous glances in Karen’s direction. “Come help me with the groceries.”

With one last glance at the woman, Dean stomps out into the hallway, gritting his teeth to keep the barrage of bitchy comments to himself. “Who’s that?” He rounds on Bobby as soon as they are out of earshot.

Bobby harrumphs and crosses his arms. “Friend of a friend. She’s a nurse.”

“We don’t need a nurse, I can do it without help!” Dean exclaims, then tugs at his hair in embarrassed frustration. If he keeps doing this, he is gonna need a baseball cap to hide his bald spot soon enough.

Bobby looks displeased, yet unsurprised by the reaction. “No, you can’t.”

The flat-out opposition throws Dean for a moment and leaves him with nothing to retaliate with. He goes for the next best thing he can think of. “Also, _Karen?_ Are you serious?”

It’s Bobby’s turn to look defensive. “It has nothing to do with my Karen. That just happens to be her name. Plenty of women share it.”

“Oh, and is it just a coincidence that out of the fuckton of nurses we met you chose her?”

“She is competent.”

“Right. Competent.” Dean snorts and scuffs the toes of his boots on the wooden floor. Sam is down from a _supernatural_ illness, not the damn flu! He doesn’t need massages, he needs a _fucking weapon_ that kills the parasite in his head. “Might as well -”

“Uhm, sorry, boys.” They jump as one when Karen’s knuckles rap at the doorframe. She looks like she heard some of Dean’s outburst and wants nothing else than getting out of here. Good, Dean would be happy to show her the door. She doesn’t belong here. Sam is Dean’s responsibility, she has no right to take it away from him and then mess Sam even further up.

Except, what she settles on saying goes something like this. “Could you get me a clean blanket?”

Dean narrows his eyes, equal parts nettled and awed by this woman’s persistence to help. He wouldn’t trust her as far as he can throw her, but if she’s willing to put up with Dean’s constant hostile presence, then she might be more courageous than he assumed at first glance. “Why?”

She gives him a wary look. “He’s cold. There are goose bumps all over his arms.”

“Oh.”

Oh no. Poor Sammy, how long has he…? Did Dean sleep next to him while he was suffering from invisible shivers? Why didn’t he realise that something was wrong? He is supposed to have a sixth sense when it comes to his brother, where did it go? _I told you,_ he hears Bobby’s imaginary voice in his mind, _you are not enough._

“Right.” Dean clears his throat, a shameful flush rising to his cheeks that he tries to disguise with a scowl.

“Let me get it for you.” Bobby comes to his rescue and leads Karen away to the cabinet filled with spare linens.

Dean stays standing there with claws of despondency sinking into his sternum. He’s a failure. He couldn’t find Sam in time, wasn’t there when Sam woke up in the hospital, and he’s letting Sam down now too, when he is needed the most. He should have just made the deal months ago.

 

* * *

 

Dean surges up with a pounding heart, eyes immediately locking on the curled up, familiar figure in the other bed. This is his fifteenth dreamwalk and he never once managed to avoid this heartbeat of panic. But he is getting better at focusing on the here and now, the blind confusion of the first minute has been reduced to a second. The fog isn’t spilling into the room yet. Maybe the parasite is asleep too, exhausted by its attempts to win over Sam’s will of iron.

With all the stealth he can manage, he slides down to the ground and makes an effort to manipulate the dream just enough to slide the carpet under his knees. It’s excruciating, but he has gained enough experience that small tricks like this work out sometimes. With the soft fabric muffling his movements, he sneaks closer to Sam’s outstretched body, watching out for the missing intruder from the corner of his eye.

Considering how miserably Sam has been shivering all afternoon even after Karen brought him a second blanket, it isn’t surprising that this skeleton of a setting Sam usually dreams up has changed. However, Dean is taken aback by how something as simple as an open window could make a difference in his brother’s never-ending dream. When the parasite appears behind him and pours fog into the room, it spills right out into the world outside of their closed-off little box of a motel room.

 _No more hiding behind that cloud,_ Dean thinks, and turns to throw a smug grin at the intruder.

But instead of a face, all he sees is a blurry silhouette. It’s human-shaped and has vaguely brown hair, but nothing else clears out. Dean blinks and squints, rubs his eyes, but a film descends on them as soon as they turn to identify the stranger a few feet away from him. It’s like one of those nightmares when you can’t open your eyes because they are closed in the real world and your brain realises you shouldn’t be able to see pictures behind your eyelids.

“Nice trick, Sam. You won this round.” The guy says and flashes a grin at Dean that’s bright and vicious even as they cut through the haze of his blinded eyes. “He really is smart, huh?”

Head split open by a headache his dizzying sight causes him, Dean turns back to Sam and begins crawling in the direction of the spot where he thinks his head is. No need for stealth anymore. “Was it… was it him who opened the window?”

The intruder snorts and flings himself down on the vacated mattress. “Half of this space is still his own.” He muses, then scoffs when Dean’s hand touches Sam’s blanket for the first time since he started this dreamwalking thing back in the hospital. “You won’t be able to shake him awake. It’s more complicated than that. It might be too much for your… capacity.”

 _He’s just trying to rile you up. Don’t give him the satisfaction,_ Dean’s thoughts tell him and with gargantuan effort, he finally manages to drag himself the rest of the way over and touch Sam. It’s indescribable, the relief and the sense of triumph, the goddamn burst of hope in Dean’s chest. His fingers find solid, warm flesh, curl around the muscles of a body that’s twice as buff as its real-life counterpart currently is, and squeeze. Sam’s dream-self grumbles about shackles. Dean’s heart _bleeds._

“Sam.” He croaks out, blinking hard again just to catch a glimpse, a single peek at dream-Sam’s healthy face. “Sammy, I’m here.” He jostles Sam’s arm. “Wake up.”

The intruder behind him snickers and sends a pulse of energy through the walls that seems to settle in Sam’s body. “Don’t listen to him. Being awake is much more exhausting, believe me.”

It’s evident that the being keeps Dean around only as long as he is amused, and Dean knows that amusement is running thin. He has to hurry up. Frantic, he slides his hands up to cup Sam’s face and gives him a light slap. “Come on, buddy, come on!”

“You’re kinda thick, aren’t you, Dean?” The stranger pipes up. “I told you, you wouldn’t get through to him physically.”

Dean wants to laugh at the irony of it. There’s nothing physical in here, this is a dream, and still, there are barriers keeping him away from his brother. He tries to think of it as a riddle. Nothing physical. So, basically nothing that Dean knows. What would Dad do? What would _Sam_ do?

And then it hits him like a bolt out of the blue - when they stayed at decent motels as kids, Sam wouldn’t get up until he heard the TV or the radio. He wanted to know everything about the world because they were left out of experiencing so much of it. Waiting for Dean to switch either of those on was the little ploy he worked out to get his fill.

There’s a radio on the bedside table, Dean remembers.

Pulling all his mental energy and coordination together, he jumps up from the floor and turns on the device with one quick flick of his wrist.

“No.” The stranger rolls off the other bed, voice rising. “No, no, no, what have you done?”

As the retro-sweet tunes of Asia’s Heat of the Moment blare through the air, the film on Dean’s eyes begins to melt off and he lets out a laugh of satisfaction. Hearing that perpetually amused and sarcastic monster losing his temper is something he’s going to commit to mind for a while.

“Don’t like it, you conceited fucker?” He grins, wiping his eyes. His vision is clearing - he’ll be able to see the intruder, just a few seconds...

“Sam, you can’t - Hell!” The guy curses, then points at Dean. “You and your brother are going to regret stepping in my way. I won’t be this careless again.” He threatens, then disappears into thin air.

“Damnit.” Dean sighs. He has no time to mourn the missed chance of seeing the guy, because just as his vision returns to normal, he hears a groan and the creak of bedsprings behind his back. He whirls around, his heart in his throat. 

Sam woke up in his dream. He woke up! And he is standing right in front of Dean, scratching his forearm and yawning like he wants to swallow the room whole. Dean makes an incoherent sound of joy in the back of his throat. “Sam?”

“Dean…” Sam frowns at him. “What’s wrong?”

A horrible, terrible suspicion begins to dawn in Dean’s mind, but he doesn’t want to accept it. “What do you mean ‘what’s wrong’?”

“Is it about your deal?” Sam replies and moves past him into the magically apparent bathroom. “I promise we’ll figure it out after we are done with this case, okay?”

When the words begin to sink in, Dean feels himself slipping out of the dream, for the first time not because someone forces him out of it, but because he can’t cope with the truth that Sam - dream-Sam - doesn’t remember anything about the struggles they have been through. He doesn’t remember. How could he regain awareness without knowing he has to?

 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is welcome. :)
> 
> By the way, the line on the picture is an actual theta wave.


End file.
